The Boy With A Tshirt For A Face
by CharitySaleChild
Summary: Yea. You know him. Who dosent? But how did said shirt come to be? Well, you're about to find out.  this is just taking the piss, enjoy


**I love him**.

Replace 'him' with 'me' and you're on the right track.

The track of appreciation.

Appreciation of _me_.

It all began the day of my most recent birthday.

I'd just scored the hottest chick in this deadbeat town and was resting after totally banging her coochie to shreds for, like, an **hour** straight, when my top-of-the-range phone (with built in UV, water, oil and zombie attack protection) rang.

Guess who it was? None other than Jessica Simpson, totally asking me if I wanted to go out to town with her on a _shopping spree_. Yeah. So that's what it's called nowadays.

Yeah. Totally sweet, right?

Basically, after she picked me up in her totally amazing hovercraft jetfighter limousine with jet pack turbo blaster engines, she spent the **whole** time on top of me and her totally amazing jugs were all over me or whatever.

We went into all these totally amazing shops and she bought me this amazing bike with amazing reflectors, with amazing flames painted up the side.

_No more pussy handlebar tassels for me._

So I sat her on my shoulders cos I'm, like, the strongest kid in South Park or whatever, and wheelied all the way to the most amazing ever shopping plaza with Prada dresses for, like, a gazillion dollars or whatever, so I bought her two.

Naturally after all of the bike stuff I was totally beat, so to cool off I ordered a beer in this totally amazing twelve star bar and the guy mistook me for Tom Cruise!

Easy mistake to make, but I let him off easy.

Anyways, Jessica totally grabbed me and I totally banged her right there on the bar in front of everyone, and they were all so totally jealous – cos I was so handsome and she was so smoking hot.

So, we did it, like, four times in a row, and were just about to do it again when I saw this totally fugly guy with a tee-shirt...with his face on it.

OhhEmmGee.

I just _had_ to have one.

So I grabbed my woman and we ran the whole way to the printing store and they practically drooled all over my amazing Nike sneakers – which may I add used to belong to Mister David Beckham, before I Ebayed em for, like, five dollars of whatever which sucks for them cos I would have payed fifty hundred billion on the spot. No joke. I snapped my fingers and they just appeared with a top of the range camera and took a shot of my beautiful mug, before rolling out every colour of the rainbow in fabrics. I chose this totally macho green, and in practically three seconds flat it was ready.

As I was changing everyone was in awe of my amazing 8-pack, and so they should be.

I can crush a can with my freaking _pecks_, dude.

They even said that my tee-shirt is worth its weight in gold. It weighs, like, fifteen pounds – no joke – cos the fabric is chain link platinum coated in ninja silk from the hills of Germany.

Told you I was strong.

But guess who walks in at that very moment? You guessed it – the **Queen**, who upon spotting my one of a kind top demanded that I auction it on the spot for _fourteen gazillion dollars_!

Naturally, I said no, as it was worth waaay more, resulting in her being very pissed.

Needless to say, I had to resort to a 360-backflip pirouette-triple cartwheel ninja move to escape that situation – girl in hand – as the Queen sent guards armed with spears and bazookas after me, along with her personal Ligers, pretty much my favourite animals (bred especially for their skills in magic) which only added to the chaos as they sent magical toads and fiery unicorns charging after me.

Well, seven thousand pints of blood, sixteen broken legs and two dead yetis later, I was riding bareback on an endangered Maltese three-headed dragon, as the store erupted into emerald flame. Jessica wasn't with me, as at the last minute she had snatched her two precious dresses from me and started trying to clobber me with her diamante kitten heel. I was hoping she had perished in the fire – after all, anyone who tries to bring any harm to this beautifully carved asset should be given the death penalty at _least_.

Sadly, my beautiful bike melted as soon as it touched the dragon's scaly hide – I, of course, was unaffected as I wore specially designed armour that could withstand temperatures hotter than the surface of the sun underneath my clothes at all times – so none of my asswipe friends even _believed_ me when I told them of my amazing once-in-a-lifetime adventure. They accused me of being high or something.

_Ill show them high._

Screw them. I mean, how many people can say that they spent a day with Jessica Simpson and only got to do her four times?

Hmmm. Only me I guess.


End file.
